Mal à Bâtir
by Cherry Mars
Summary: The feel of that pen in her grasp, that blank page.  Mal-centric, slight Mal/Cobb. May or may not be expanded upon.


**A/N:** This may or may not end up as a series of ficlets about Mal (and Cobb). But for now, this stands alone, and can be in the same universe as "The Rescuer" (another of my Inception fics). I thought it'd be interesting to delve into something I brought up in the other story, which is that Mal always had "issues."

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Inception, but I love every bit of it.

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**Pure Creation**

When she entered the room and her dewy blue eyes scanned the lecture hall for an empty seat, Mal realized she was early. No one was there, so she sat off to the side in the second row and pulled out her sketch book. Her deft hands floated over the page, lines forming without her knowing exactly what was coming from the pen. But she didn't really care- all throughout Architectural History, she'd been thinking of sketching. The feel of that pen in her grasp, that blank page.

That blank page. Mal's stomach lurched, and her eyes closed. That page was her gateway. Everything about that page was absolutely thrilling, frightening, delicious, beautiful, and depressing. The blankness signified what could _be_. That void could be filled up with Mal's pen- created into anything that struck her mind; inspiration could spill out onto that page, and Mal could quell that itch- that _ache_ to create.

She wrenched herself from her thoughts, finding that the room was filling. Mal cupped her chin in her palm, surveying the chatty people floating in. They were all ages, some of them graduate students like her, and some of them were first year architecture students. As the seats became occupied, Mal noticed a trend. It was obvious- no one wanted to sit next to her. She sighed, knowing that she wasn't just Mal in this building, in this department, at this university. She was Mallorie Miles, the daughter of the Assistant Dean Stephen Miles. No one wanted to upset her.

Class began, and Professor Gretchen Miller began passing back quizzes. Mal got hers back, rolling her eyes at what was wrong. Wind was a live load, wasn't it? And yes, it was lateral too, but the book never said that. Everything else was right on her paper, though. She didn't have time for Gretchen's bullshit- design studio was much more important than this. Mal returned to sketching.

This was Mal's first year of graduate school, which explained why she was taking basic architectural classes. She had a bachelor's degree in art and design, and she thought that was enough creativity, but then (the deep sickness returned to the pit of her gut) she needed it to be concrete. That and she had to earn a living somehow. But that need for that blankness on the paper to be a tangible- a living, breathing, interactive thing. Mal needed it to be there. If it wasn't there- if she couldn't-

Mal became aware of her body once the teardrops blurred her drawings, distorting the ink. She swallowed, trying to stimulate her salivary glands to wet her dry mouth. Her breaths, labored and ragged, shuddered throughout her body. Her fingers cold, clammy. Her heart pounded, racing, begging to be unleashed from her chest. Her face was burning hot, everything was pushing at her, pushing, and-

Abandoning everything on her desk, Mal dashed down the steps of the theatre seating, hand to her mouth to keep in the sobs. Without an explanation for Gretchen, Mal left the lecture room running. She didn't care where she was going. Mal just wanted out. She needed out. She would've died had she stayed, she just knew it.

Mal's pace slowed to a jog, passing the horticulture rooms. She decided she wanted sun. She was cold on the outside, burning on the inside. She needed to feel right. The sun, maybe the sun could do that. She pushed open the door to the greenhouse, the one that only the landscape architecture students used. The heat and humidity stifled the chill on her skin, helping her regulate the amalgam of feelings swirling through her.

"You okay?" A voice asked. She shook her head, breaking down with sobs once more. Her hands went over her face; she wasn't hiding, only trying to push it all back in. "Hey, hey, you're alright." Mal said nothing, only grateful for the hand rubbing circles into her back. She concentrated on those, trying to reorder herself.

"Thanks." Mal took a deep breath and looked up at her comforter. His eyes were the color of dawn. The breath escaped from her lips.

"You're welcome. Mallorie, right? I'm Dominick Cobb- Dom. From studio?"

"Oh. Yes, I remember you." She nodded. The fear was dying down, ebbing back into its cage deep within her heart. Mal focused on his face, finding something oddly soothing in his visage.

"Good. Well-" Dom checked his watch. "It's past noon. Want to get some lunch?"

"What? I- I can't, I've got class. I just came from there." Her eyes darted to the classroom she'd hastily left only moments before.

"I don't think you want to go back from where you came."

"All my stuff is there-"

"I'll get it. Gretchen's class, right?" Mal nodded.

"Unfortunately," she sighed. Dom started chuckling, and laugh lines crinkled up his eyes. The rest of Mal's panic attack faded with the sound.

"C'mon, we'll go get it, and then we can go get something to eat. You look like you need a break." They walked back together in silence, and Dom let Mal stay outside while he grabbed her books and purse. Mal took her purse; Dom decided he'd hold her books for her.

"You don't have to," she started. "I mean- we don't have to go to lunch either, Dom." Mal knew her face was pitiful; her eyes were probably red. And she didn't want his sympathy. Sympathy was overrated- no one could understand the nature of her illness. And she didn't want to give him the chance to ask why she was crying either. It was stupid.

"You can't just back out of a date, Mallorie." They traipsed to the front entrance. Mal stopped mid-step.

"A- a what? A date?"

"Yeah. And if it all works out, the first of many." A devilish smile fell onto Dominick Cobb's face, and Mal couldn't help but smile too.

"Okay." Dom opened the door for her, still smiling. "And it's Mal by the way."

"Mal," said he, as if testing how her name felt against his tongue. Mal decided that she liked the sound. And she decided that, if he asked, she just _maybe_ wouldn't mind telling him of the anxiety that had struck her heart. She decided that maybe he'd understand.

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**Note: **I hope you enjoyed it. And yeah, I have a wonderful professor by the name of Gretchen in my architectural program. She gives us all Hell.

Please review!


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